


Spread Your Love

by SilentSinger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bondage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, general nastiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 13:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/pseuds/SilentSinger
Summary: An alternate scenario for S03E04: New Day Rising.

  Spread your love like a fever,and don’t you ever come down.





	

Gertrud Kapelput didn’t host company often. The few guests she did entertain – and they  _ were  _ few – comprised of a small selection of relatives who didn’t live overseas, assorted (and extremely well-vetted) work colleagues – past and present, and whomever Oswald saw fit to invite from school (a position that was very rarely filled).

Gertrud would cook, she’d sing and she’d dance. Spirits were lifted and games were played. One particular game that had always stayed in Oswald’s mind had been a straightforward affair involving a tray full of quarters and small candles – the type one might set upon a birthday cake. It didn’t have a name – to his recollection – but the premise was simple enough. Each candle sat atop a quarter, and each quarter sat atop a small slip of paper with a participant's name written upon it. The candles were lit and while they burned, Gertrud would insist that they all indulged in what she would refer to as “the lost art of conversation”.

The last candle still lit was of course the lucky winner, and the tray full of quarters was their grand prize. The cherry on top of this particular game though – for Oswald – was the fact that he always won. Every single occasion. Even to this day he’d never figured out just how his mother had managed to swing the tides in his favour each time. Perhaps an extra coat of wax. Perhaps he was given a better quality candle – one that was practically indistinguishable from the others to the untrained eye. He didn’t care particularly; the benefits of winning far outweighed any inklings of guilt that saw fit to plague him, and so when this game was played – while the others were rekindling the lost art of conversation – Oswald was internally deliberating just how he’d be spending his winnings this time.

****

Bribing the election board officials, to Oswald, was exactly the same concept. Both outcomes were for his betterment, be it a selection of his favourite comics for his eight-year-old self, or the present-day position of mayor. Two sides of the same coin, one profitable result. There was no bad here, only Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot – coming out on top and smelling of roses.

His therapy at Arkham, it seems, had given Oswald a wider spectrum of human emotion than he’d ever experienced before. It had tapped into a hidden reservoir of feelings that had previously always lingered out of reach – like a shiny jewel glistening from the dank of a storm drain. He could now feel devastated. Completely and utterly. His soft underbelly had been exposed, and he had yet to acquire the armour to protect it. The upside to this phenomenon, was the fact that when he did feel good, he felt absolutely fucking superb.

He’d grown accustomed to these new sensations, and had taken them in his stride. While Edward Nygma had once insisted that love is a weakness, Oswald knew that love, or more specifically – passion, is what truly makes a man. Passion is absolute; it burns and it angers, it adores and it destroys. Passion is what every great leader needs, and Arkham’s therapy had not only sparked that fire inside of him – it had poured gasoline over his very soul.

As such, when Edward had taken it upon himself to retrieve every single bribe back from the clammy, outstretched palms of the officials, Oswald would have gladly seen him killed. In fact, Oswald would have happily displayed his head – devoid of eyes and teeth – in the mayoral headquarters, as a small but friendly reminder of who is in charge. Friends don’t pull those sorts of shenanigans, particularly friends with whom you’d shared so much. But, as it turns out, Ed had been right. The people of Gotham had elected him anyway; he was loved. He was adored. He was  _ cherished. _

And he’d never felt better.

****

The first thing one must learn when dealing with a man like Edward Nygma, is the fact that he is always, irrefutably right.

The second thing one must learn, is that Edward abhors being doubted. The Penguin had doubted him, and what’s more, he’d briefly sided with that dimwitted lummox Gilzean. When Ed was once again proven to be correct and Oswald’s tear-stained face had regarded him with the wonderment of a child being shown a magic trick for the first time, Edward had found himself internally questioning just what he himself was getting out of this relationship – because it sure as hell wasn’t Oswald’s trust. 

And so, when an overjoyed Oswald had escorted him from the room, gleefully exclaiming: “Come, Ed. We have plans to make”, Edward Nygma was making plans of his own.

****

Oswald is no fool. Out of earshot of the bulk of the elective congregation, when Ed suggests that they retire to one of the Van Dahl mansion’s many bedrooms, under the pretence of “practising his mayoral acceptance speech” (walls have ears, after all – especially for a man of Oswald Cobblepot’s social stature), Oswald is fully aware of his intentions.

When the door closes behind them and Edward’s expression shifts with the abruptness of a gunshot, Oswald attempts to steel his resolve, preparing himself for the inevitable.

_ I can’t be bought, but I can be stolen with one glance. _

_ I’m worthless to one, but priceless to two. _

Love, for Oswald Cobblepot and Edward Nygma, didn’t factor; never had, probably never would. Theirs was an arrangement of convenience. When Oswald needed his dick sucking until his toes curled and his throat was sore, Ed would willingly oblige. In return he’d slip into Oswald’s tight little ass, pound him until his eyes watered and they were both utterly sated, and they’d remain there – a heaving, sweating mess of intertwined limbs and euphoria.

But something about Edward’s expression this time – as his piceous eyes bore into Oswald with the countenance of a man ready to devour and destroy until absolutely nothing remains – suggests that he doesn’t just want to fuck.

Edward wants to  _ play. _

Before Oswald even has a chance to think, Ed has him against the wall, arms pinned above his head and a strong hand clamped around his throat. Oswald swallows hard – an endeavour that seems ever more fruitless as Edward’s mouth claims his own, his tongue thrusting and exploring as his teeth graze against Oswald’s lips.

“You believed him, didn’t you?” Ed hisses. He pulls back so that their lips are all but touching, and tightens his grip around Oswald’s neck. “You’d take the word of that corpulent ingrate over mine, wouldn’t you?”

Oswald isn’t afraid of Edward. Never has been. Despite the disequilibrium descending upon him as Ed’s unrelenting grip on his throat tightens – his pulse pounding in his ears as his cock strains against the fabric of his pants – Oswald can do little more than smile. Secretly, he wants to infuriate Edward – to etch away at that placid exterior so that the miscreant within may come out to play.

“Answer me.”

“It’s purely politics, my friend,” Oswald croaks, with all the enunciation he can muster in such a precarious position. “The people of Gotham need me,” he continues, as Ed’s large thumb traces along the underside of his jaw, the pressure of his palm unwavering.

“I need you,” Edward growls, as he presses closer into Oswald, the substantial length of his erection now digging into the shorter man’s hip. “Take off your pants.”

He releases his grip then, freeing Oswald’s arms and neck at once and standing back as Oswald doubles over with a choking gasp.

Oswald obliges, unclipping his suspenders and fumbling with his zipper, his hands shaking with anticipation. Edward observes in silence, his eyes narrowed – waiting, watching, biding his time. Soon enough though, a sneer plays at the corner of his lips as he slowly removes his tie.

“Now get on the bed,” he orders. “Face down. Arms behind your back.”

Oswald obeys, and Edward removes his own pants and climbs onto the bed behind him, his presence looming above and to the rear with such foreboding that Oswald feels as if he’s being pursued by Death himself.

Ed binds Oswald’s wrists tight – the soft fabric of the tie surprisingly unyielding against his flesh – and adjusts Oswald so that he’s on his knees, ass raised proudly in the air.

“There’s lube in the nightstand,” he chances, as Edward’s rough palms spread his cheeks, the head of his cock teasing with the puckered opening.

“Shut up,” Ed grunts, as he presses inside at an agonisingly slow pace, ignoring the squawks of protest from Oswald.

Edward stills for a moment, at full hilt, and takes ahold of Oswald’s bound wrists. With a guttural groan he begins to move, hard and fast, deep and deliberate, pounding into Oswald tirelessly, hands clutching at Oswald’s wrists for leverage, their skin slapping together with each strident croak of the bedsprings. Oswald feels used and compromised – trussed up like a piece of meat for his lover’s pleasure. Every sensation overwhelms him, every thrust, every grunt, every profanity spilling from Ed’s lips. He moans then, deep and low and hoarse – the exquisite balance of pain and pleasure overtaken completely by wanton desire. 

“Yes,  _ fuck,  _ Ed –  _ yes. _ Fuck me fuck me  _ fuckmefuckme-” _

And Edward doesn’t relent, his pace becoming more and more frenzied as he hammers unremittingly, his huge hands still clinging adamantly to Oswald’s bound wrists like a novice riding an extremely uncooperative horse.

“You’re mine, Oswald,” he begins to repeat like some obscene prayer, the intonation of his voice bawdy and breathless and booming all at once. “You’re mine. You’re mine. You. Are.  _ Mine.” _

And Oswald can do little but whine in agreement, tears stinging at his eyes, his teeth now clamped firmly around a mouthful of bedsheets. Much to Oswald’s surprise, however, Ed’s momentum slows. He pulls out suddenly, and flips Oswald over. Hands still tied behind his back, all Oswald can do is wriggle feebly as Edward clambers over him – cock in hand – and begins to stroke himself right before Oswald’s eyes.

“You’d have had him shoot me in the face,” he smirks, his dark eyes fluttering shut as he quickens his pace. With a roar of profanity and a bone-chilling giggle he comes, thick and hot over Oswald’s face – the astringent flavour seeping into his aghast mouth and onto his tongue.

Cock throbbing and completely neglected, Oswald squirms in place, the viscous fluid coating his eyelids so that when he does attempt to open his eyes, he can see very little. He can hear Edward dressing himself though, and shortly afterwards, the door clicks shut – the sound ominous against the sudden reticence of the bedroom.

_ He’ll be back, _ Oswald thinks.

_ He’ll be back. _

**Author's Note:**

> The candle game is actually something my family used to play at parties. It’s just as dull as it sounds. I’ve yet to meet another person who ever played it, so either my grandmother made it up or you are all very lucky.
> 
> [okimi79.tumblr.com](http://okimi79.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Please click here for an artist's impression by my sick fuck of a girlfriend. Tell her she's a cunt, too.](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com/post/152202740375/despite-the-disequilibrium-descending-upon-him-as)


End file.
